


Candid

by Rhinocio



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, Gen, Nonbinary Ruby, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinocio/pseuds/Rhinocio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't act with forethought very often, not since <i>before</i>. It's made her reckless. This time, it may have put her in serious trouble. Sapphire steals without thinking, and Ruby shoots her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candid

There is a very strong voice that tells her this is a bad idea.

Her mother would tell her to listen to the voice, no matter how timid its volume in the back of her mind, because it was one of reason. But Sapphire has spent time before heeding suggestions that in the end were no more than malnourished synapses of mentally upset neurons, and those comments never got her far. (Literally – collapsing from exhaustion and caloric deficiency was one of the worst ways to progress from point A to B.) She no longer trusts her “womanly instincts” when it comes to what is worthwhile or worthless; impulse is a much better friend.

She considers the object in her hands for less than a second before stuffing it in her bag and escaping from the photoshoot cleanup like a thief, which, Sapphire supposes, she technically is. Etiquette would have seen her return it to her manager, or call up the number carefully printed on a sticker that's starting to peel off the back of the camera, and she – of course! - has every intent to do so, eventually. She's curious, is all. She wants to know what a photographer sees in her. Besides, they left it behind, and _someone's_ got to keep it safe. Given enough time to think about her actions, Sapphire might feel shame or embarrassment, but she doesn't stop long enough to do so. She skitters down the street, tan boot heels clicking musically, hops a couple of buses across town (standing, to burn fat, and near the door, so nobody harasses her), and dashes into her apartment as if another tenant is going to be standing on the staircase, phone in hand, ready to call the police. The locks on her door snap shut with a loudness that gains her roommate's attention.

“There's chicken wings and Chinese on the stove,” comes the nasally call from Dot's bedroom, and Sapphire kicks her shoes into the closet with enough force to signal she's heard. Clutching her purse to her chest like a volatile time bomb, she tiptoes across the itchy brown carpet and snatches a handful of fortune cookies off the burner, leaving the pile of bones her roomie considers leftovers to the fruit flies. She mumbles a thank you as she hightails it past Dot's door, cracks the first cookie in its plastic encasement, and rips the package open with her teeth to behold its prophesy.

Sapphire crumples the paper and chews it as she throws herself onto her single bed; it's a habit from _before_ that she's never quite been able to drop. The material is bland and dry in her mouth, but gives her tongue something to do as she carefully unzips her purse and removes the camera as if it's going to shatter in her hands. There are what seems like hundreds of buttons on it, all images with no worded labels, and she hesitates to mess with them, but, being of the millennial age, Sapphire is playing before she realizes quite how she powered up or changed the settings on the screen. The little black machine whirrs to digital life, and she hits the symbol that looks like the play button on a VCR.

There are more lines and numbers across the photos than she knows what to make of, dividing the screen into quadrants and measuring battery power or white balance or something else overcomplicated. Sapphire sticks to the simple controls – the arrow buttons and clearly-labeled “enter” key – and begins flipping through what the SD card has saved. 

She purses her lips as she browses, tilting the camera back and forth to sight the images properly. Some she can't distinguish – they're too blurry, or too close, or just a pattern instead of a clear shot of a subject. Most are crisp black and white photos of people in coffee shop windows, or water spraying from the wheels of a moving car, or crowds at a stoplight; standard things for a city photographer, and easy for Sapphire to understand. Some could use polishing, but she imagines that's what Photoshop is for. They're familiar to her, in that she's seen such images in magazines, as backgrounds to the large fonts advertizing clothing and perfumes. They grace either side of the foldout images of her dancing, usually in bold colour. Framed by monochrome and dusted with edits, Sapphire always looks lovely.

She carefully turns the lens towards her face and hits what she assumes is the shutter button, after some fumbling. The camera snaps loudly, startling her, and Sapphire has to clutch it to her chest before it falls (not that the mattress is a dangerous surface, but it's the principle of the matter). With a shaky exhale she hits the little triangle on its control panel and reviews her haphazard shot. It's ugly as sin.

Her thumb slips as she's hitting delete. 

Sapphire has been mortified a grand total of once in her life. Embarrassed, angry, uncomfortable – sure. But the thick, palpable horror called mortification is a special word, one she saves for the agony of discovery, when the world spins and is dotted with blinking stars, and someone shines bright lights in her eyes and asks her when she last ate... and she can't remember, because it's been a very long while. She's logged that memory away in a dark place, one with a door barred by salad dressings and vitamins, one she swallows by throwing crumbs of fortune cookie into her dry mouth. Sapphire grips the sides of the camera like she can will her mistake to undo, and decides that this event can, too, fit into the category of “oh my god, I fucked up”.

She eyes the phone number taped to the device. Her gut screams no. Instead, she stuffs the camera back into her bag, runs fingers across her face and gives her hair a frustrated tug, then dashes back to where she left her shoes. Dot peers out of her room, her large glasses reflecting the hall light, hair wild under her hoodie, and hums, “Didn't you just get here?”

Sapphire nods quickly, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and reaches for her keys. Dot shrugs; “Bring me s'more wings if you go past the Fry shop.”

The city is busier now that rush hour has hit, and to save time, Sapphire skitters along the sidewalk instead of taking the bus. Her heart pounds in her chest, trying to race ahead of the click of her heels. Her satchel taps against her thigh, its presence like a ball and chain. All the while she keeps her lips pressed tight, fleeing the anxiety at her back, repeating, “It'll be fine,” in her mind like a mantra. She trips on the way into the dance studio after trying to take the stairs two at a time; her ribs still ache when she wobbles to the top, her bag clutched against her breast desperately.

A quick glance around the room assures her she's alone, but Sapphire bolts along the wall like some kind of ninja nonetheless. She slips into the room of mirrors like a shadow, already fishing the camera out with damp palms. Hopefully the photographer isn't paranoid enough to check for prints or do some kind of DNA scan with all the high-tech tools prime time television swears law enforcement has. She pads carefully across the hardwood floor, lays the device gently on the floor, then runs back out, as if the camera is counting down seconds until it grows legs and follows her. She's just out of sight, and nearly back at the stair railing, when she hears the loud thumping of feet and an exasperated shout.

“There you are!” The voice is high, but rough, like sandpaper taken to the shine of a crystal glass. She recognizes it instantly, and fears she'll collapse with the way her blood runs cold; despite her petrification at being found, Sapphire plunks herself down on a stair and listens. Behind the door, there's the soft echo of mumbling, too muffled for interpretation, and then a pause. Sapphire grips the iron railing and holds her breath.

“Oh, no,” the photographer whimpers, and silence follows with a poignancy that makes her ears ache. Sapphire mouths an apology a second before a loud bang makes her jump and nearly pitch down the staircase; she claps a hand to her mouth and chokes down her alarmed breathing to listen to the roars in the other room. The muttering has become shouting, though not any more distinguishable. Between furious caws, there are raw moans, as if the photographer has become injured. They stomp their feet and yell profanities for minutes, lost in the moment, and then abruptly stop. 

Sapphire stands carefully and cranes her neck to peek through one of the clear strips in the otherwise frosted glass door. The photographer stands dejected, holding their camera in resigned hands, head hanging. They sigh loudly enough for the noise to carry, lift their head to the ceiling, and sniff. Sapphire is more than a little bewildered; she cringes watching them stuff the empty device in their bag and wipe their eyes with a sleeve. Surely photos couldn't be this serious?

Maybe she's destroyed the images that would see them paid for the next little while. Maybe the shots from today's shoot were on there. Would they reschedule another? Maybe Sapphire has ruined everything and will get a call from her manager, intending to drop her contract due to theft and destruction of property! Shaking her head, Sapphire dashes once again for the stairs. If she isn't here, she can't be blamed!

The universe hates her with a passion, it seems, because before she's made it past the curve in the stairs she's hooked her jacket on the rail, and is being held in place like a captured animal. She pivots to fix it, her chest heaving with fear, feeling her hair and scarf whip around her, and glances up at the second floor just in time to hear a soft click.

Time freezes. Evening sunlight streaks across the photographer's wild hair and makes the dust falling down upon her look like golden snow. The building's air feels cold, suddenly. Ruby lowers the camera from their face, look down at her from behind square glasses, and their eyes crinkle into a smile. 

“Sorry,” they say, and their voice holds none of the aggression from moments before, “You were just... it was perfect.” 

Sapphire gapes at them, unable to move.

“Can you believe this stupid thing crashed on me?” they add frowning down at the machine, tiny curls falling across their cheeks, “I dunno if I hit the wrong button when I was reinstalling the driver or what, but what I had on it is toast.”

Words bubble up in Sapphire's throat, but lodge behind her terror. The photographer wipes the screen.

“They weren't great anyway, I guess. This one's... it's... did you want to see?”

Her legs move of their own accord, leaden with every tottering step up. Ruby hops down to meet her. As they get closer, their expression begins to screw up; by the time she's next to them, inhaling a scent akin to sandalwood, Ruby looks positively pissed at their camera. They turn it towards her with shaking hands, gripping the sides so hard their dark fingers are going pale. They mumble, but the words seem to be more a threat to the device than anything coherent. Sunlight refracts off the screen for a moment, blinding her, and then Sapphire sees herself.

A captured animal is a good analogy, she decides, gazing over the image. She's caught in movement, looking up with wide eyes, framed by the ribbons of her hair; they wrap at her neck like thin wires. Her hands are wild around her, as if reaching for a weapon. The landing below her is dark and ominous; the sunbeam from the window on the second floor has glazed across her face just enough to highlight her cheekbones. She's not pretty in this photo – not like in her magazine spreads, confident and flirty – she looks haunted. The subject isn't nice to look at, but the feeling is. Sapphire glances at Ruby.

They're staring at her. Their rich brown eyes are penetrating, demanding. She wills herself not to cringe at the intensity, and nods.

“It's nice.”

Ruby nods back, then fixates on the display, murmuring to themself once more. They ask something about consent to keep the photo, and she agrees without hearing. Sapphire takes her chance to leave, but pauses at the foot of the staircase. Her steps had been loud the whole way, and berating her. Her brain repeats its earlier warning: _this is a bad idea._ Impulse agrees. Sapphire speaks anyway.

“I'm sorry about the photos you lost,” she says, voice cracking against the cool stone of the walls. Ruby glances up at her, startled, and considers.

“It's cool,” they say slowly, “Can't hang on to what's gone, right?” 

Sapphire swallows, watching as the ghosts of her past haze into her vision and frame the photographer, their necromancer. They smile at her, all casualty with red cheeks, peace among uncomfortable memories. She's sure that she looks more horrified than ever, and begs whatever god might watch over her to prevent Ruby from lifting their camera again. She pats behind herself for the door handle, grasps it with clammy hands, and mumbles a quick farewell as she shoots out of the building.

The fortune she ate earlier crawls from her stomach to the back of her brain, burning with acid.

_A short stranger will soon enter your life with wisdom to share._


End file.
